Pantheon - Michael Jan Friedman [88]
Riker hesitated.
“Come now—be honest.”
The first officer decided to be as honest as the dark man had been. “Maybe. But wanting and doing are two different things.”
“No argument there,” Ben Zoma told him. “Many’s the time I wanted to take someone’s head off—and didn’t.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Riker remarked.
“Well,” said the Lexington’s captain, “I should be going. Cadwallader could probably use some company. Though I’m sure Dr. Crusher will be as suspicious of my intentions as you are—still.”
The younger man shrugged. “The fact that the captain chose to trust you is a mark in your favor. But it doesn’t necessarily mean you’re not the killer.”
“Absolutely right,” Ben Zoma said, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Now I know why Picard described you the way he did.”
While Riker tried to decipher that last remark, the captain’s friend walked past him into the empty turbolift. Just before the doors closed, he heard Ben Zoma utter a single word: “Sickbay.”
Once inside the lift, Ben Zoma shook his head appreciatively. Some officer, that Riker. Jean-Luc’s instincts had been right five years earlier, when he’d offered the man the first officer’s position on the Enterprise.
He still recalled vividly their conversation on Starbase 52, where the Lexington had put in for repairs. Ben Zoma had been pleasantly surprised to find his former captain there, awaiting transportation to his new assignment, and Picard had insisted on standing him to a few drinks.
“I tell you, Gilaad, I never thought I would find an exec like you again. But I think lightning has managed to strike twice.”
“Who is he?”
“His name is Riker. Will Riker. He’s with DeSoto on the Hood.”
“Yes. I think I’ve heard of him. His father’s a civilian strategist, isn’t he? Specializing in the frontier regions?”
“That’s correct. He’s one of the top men in his field. And for my money, his son is even better.” Picard leaned forward. “You know DeSoto—he never says a good word about anyone unless he absolutely has to. And he sings young Riker’s praises like a nightingale. Of course, DeSoto is not happy about the man leaving—he hates like hell to lose such a fine first officer. But he says Riker has earned the right to choose his own destiny.”
“Very impressive, Jean-Luc.” Ben Zoma shook his head. “A Galaxy -class vessel and a first-rate exec. What lucky star were you born under?”
“You know, my friend, I ask that question of myself sometimes.”
It was a moment before Ben Zoma realized that the turbolift had come to a stop. And another moment before he could wipe the nostalgic grin off his face, so whoever entered wouldn’t think he was some sort of imbecile.
Then he saw who was standing there, and he smiled anyway.
“A pleasant surprise,” he said. “I meant to come see you.”
“Oh?” said the newcomer as the lift doors closed again.
“Yes. I thought we should—”
Suddenly, there was a flash of something metallic. Too late, Ben Zoma realized what it was. Before he could prevent it, the knife had slipped between his ribs and out again.
Lord, he thought, I’ve found the killer. But not the way I had in mind.
As a second strike headed for his face, he ducked—and the blade hit the turbolift wall instead. Carried forward by the momentum of the attack, his adversary fell against him and they grappled. Ben Zoma somehow found the hand that held the knife and managed to keep it at bay.
But he didn’t have much time and he knew it. Already, his side was a fiery, gut-wrenching agony as his nerves woke to the damage inflicted on them. Nor did he dare look down to see how much blood he had lost—no doubt, it was considerable. Putting all his ebbing strength into a single uppercut, he managed to stagger the knife’s owner backward. And at the same time to bellow at the intercom grid for security.
Unfortunately, his adversary recovered sooner than Ben Zoma had expected. This time he couldn’t avoid the knife altogether—and it cut deep into his shoulder. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he slumped against